


Take me home tonight

by StarsHideYourFires



Series: What If... [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drunk Pick-up Lines, Drunk!Sherlock, John is always a doctor, M/M, Mycroft will be displeased, Sherlock has no tact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-30
Updated: 2011-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsHideYourFires/pseuds/StarsHideYourFires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets drunk and ends up deducing/chatting up a recently dumped former army doctor at a hotel bar. Then he needs help getting home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take me home tonight

Mycroft just could not leave anything well enough alone _._ Of course he had to bring his brother with him to the gala tonight in order to have a second pair of eyes on a particularly weasely MP, which resulted in nothing of interest since the man got well and truly pissed early in the evening and had to go home. Sherlock, feeling rather obstinate about his being forced to interact with his brother’s colleagues had decided to indulge in the open bar in order to drown out the idiocy that surrounded him.

Near to ten, Sherlock felt his vision blurring as he stumbled out to the hotel bar, settling himself onto an open stool. The barman came over and quickly gave him the scotch he ordered. Sherlock then turned to his right and noticed that he had managed to place himself next to a blonde man hunched over a pint of Guinness. His mouth sagged at the corners and his hand trembled slightly as he lifted the glass to his lips.

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, not as slurred as he expected.

“Excuse me?” The man said as he turned to face him.

“We’re you in Iraq or Afghanistan?” ‘ _It’s a simple question.’_ he thought.

“Afghanistan,” he answered, “How did you know?” A bemused smile danced across his lips.

“You still wear your dog tags and you have a tremor in your left hand, hallmark of PTSD. I took a shot,” Sherlock said. With that, he slugged back his scotch before smiling at the military man. “And I just took another one,” he added with a giggle before motioning to the bartender to bring him another drink.

“Yes, you did, and I dare say that you’ve had more than enough for one night.”The blonde then took the glass from the bartender before Sherlock could grasp it. He placed the glass beyond Sherlock’s reach before downing the rest of his Guinness. “Can I help you get home, Mr…?” he said.

“Holmes, call me Sherlock. And what should I call you, Doctor…?”

The other man quirked his brows as he answered, “John Watson. How the hell did you know I was a doctor?”

“Another shot,” Sherlock said, “I’m very observant. My mother always said that Mycroft and I were perspicacious.”

“Alright then,” John said as he slid off his barstool unwilling to inquire further into the statement.

“You’ve just been dumped too,” Sherlock added as he leaned down the bar to grab his scotch. “Mummy always said I had no tact.” ‘ _Granted, I could have said you fancy blokes too and that your ex was dull in bed.’_ he added in his head. Sherlock then tipped the contents of the glass into his mouth before placing a few notes on the bar.

“I’m not even going to ask,” John said. “Now, are you staying here or can I call you a cab?” Sherlock wavered as he stood and John moved to grip his elbow, steadying the taller man. Then he slid his other arm around his back, supporting him further; a shiver ran up Sherlock’s spine and through John’s arm. Smiling, Sherlock let John take the majority of his weight as he leaned into the doctor. “Will you even be able to make it?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock said with a grin. “Oh, Mycroft will be displeased. Do you think you could bring me to the loo?”

“Yeah, sure,” John said, steering him to the men’s. “Please say you aren’t going to vomit,” he added as he pushed open the door.

“I don’t think so; not yet at any rate,” Sherlock said as John placed him at one of the urinals before averting his eyes. Sherlock then went about emptying his bladder as he spoke, “You have very blue eyes.”

“It’s been a very long time since a man has told me that…” John murmured. Upon hearing the zip of Sherlock’s flies he moved them to the sinks and proceeded to wash his hands alongside the other man.

“I like your eyes. They’ve seen a lot of the world. And they’re kind. I’d be hard pressed to eject someone with eyes like yours from my life,” Sherlock said, and immediately mentally berated himself for saying something so moronic. He shook his head slightly then added, “I’m sorry, I’m being tactless again. I very rarely drink this much, but my brother dragged me here on a job and then it fell to bits and I went overboard in order to annoy him.” Sherlock hiccupped as he reached for a paper towel, giving only a cursory drying wipe to his hands. “Could you take me home, John?” His pale fingers, still wet from the sink, stroked along John’s bicep as he spoke.

“Yes,” John replied as he shifted to put Sherlock’s arm around his shoulder, “Of course, let’s find you a cab.” He then escorted Sherlock to the front doors and hailed a cab. After situating Sherlock in the back he was about to close the door when Sherlock grabbed his hand.

“No, John, I want you to take me home,” Sherlock said, his tone both petulant and sensual. “Please,” he said as he pouted prettily.

“Fine,” John said as he slid into the cab. “Do you at least know where home is?” he asked his inebriated companion.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a huff. “Two-Twenty-One, Baker Street,” he said to the cabbie, who nodded before pulling away from the curb.

“You’re a right manipulative bastard, you know that?” John said. Then he rather boldly placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee. Sherlock grinned a cheeky grin in response as he placed his hand on top of John’s. They spent the rest of the cab ride in silence, and Sherlock quickly paid the cabbie when they arrived at his flat.

 

Upon entrance to the flat, John helped Sherlock up the stairs, but as soon as the door at the top of the stairwell closed behind them the taller man seemed to have regained enough of his faculties in order to press John against the wall and capture his mouth in an inquisitive kiss. John deepened the kiss, snaking his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth as he trailed his hands over Sherlock’s chest.

Making quick work of removing John’s shirt, Sherlock attached his mouth to the doctor’s neck, nipping gently at the pulse point over his carotid artery. John’s hands moved fervently against the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, fumbling as he tried to push the discs through the tiny holes. Sherlock stopped the doctor’s movements, quickly undoing the buttons himself before pulling John’s palm to rest over his racing heart and returning his attention to the shorter man’s sensitive throat.

John moaned before saying, “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Sherlock pulled back and looked into John’s face, “Why not? I’m pretty sure I read the cues right. You find me attractive, you’re lonely since your girlfriend of seven months left you, and you need to connect with someone. I find you arousing and tolerable to talk to,” he stopped, glancing around the cluttered sitting room, noticing the clutter of papers, books, and lab equipment that littered the flat. “Would you prefer to relocate to the bedroom? Would that make this more proper and less fucking-a-stranger-in-an-alleyway?”

“That isn’t it, Sherlock. You’re drunk, albeit a very eloquent drunk, but drunk nonetheless,” John said. “I’m taking advantage of the situation, and it isn’t appropriate.” He pressed his hands against Sherlock’s chest, half-heartedly attempting to get the taller man to move enough in order to step away from the wall. Sherlock refused to budge.

“I still don’t see the problem. I’m looking for release, you’re looking for companionship, and I am cogent enough to make decent decisions about who I shag. I’m not saying we should move in together tomorrow, I just want to let myself drown in you for the night.” Sherlock then proceeded to lean the full length of his body against John’s, pressing feather-light kisses to his temple as he worked his way back to his lips. John reciprocated, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and keeping him tight against him.

Sliding his thumbs along the waistband of John’s trousers, Sherlock pulled away from his lips and leaned close, whispering in his ear, “Good, has that settled your crisis of conscience? May we proceed with my aforementioned plan to fuck you senseless?”

“God, yes,” John said as he let Sherlock lead him into the bedroom.

 

 

 

John awoke to Sherlock draped across his chest, the brunette breathing heavily against his neck, pale limbs wrapped around his torso. Glancing at the clock—only eight-thirty, no reason to rush—he laid very still, bringing one hand to rest at the base of Sherlock’s spine and the other to stroke through his dense curls. He was unsure how he felt about his complete ease with this man he had known for less than twelve hours. Something about Sherlock resonated with him. That and the sex had been mind-blowingly fantastic.

But now was not the time to dwell on inexplicable connections and great sex; now was a time to relax and just be.

Just as John started falling asleep again, he felt Sherlock’s arms shift as he ran his hands down John’s thighs. “Morning,” John said. Sherlock blinked at him for a moment before squeezing his eyes shut and burying his face in John’s chest. “I’ll go get you a paracetamol and some water,” John volunteered; Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s torso.

“Sherlock, you’re dehydrated, you need fluids or you’ll just feel worse when you do bother getting up,” John chided. Sherlock moaned against his shoulder, but he relaxed his hold on the doctor. “I’ll be back in a minute,” John said as he slid from the bed and after a perfunctory search of the floor he pulled on his shorts and padded across the hall to the toilet.

He found the painkillers and filled a glass with water quickly enough. Then he returned to the bedroom with his quarry and pressed two pills into Sherlock’s open palm. Sherlock slid them into his mouth before reaching for the water which he sipped and swallowed; John refused to take the glass back from him twice, only accepting it once he had emptied it.

“I take it you don’t work today,” Sherlock said, sleep still fogging up his voice.

“Nope, I have nowhere to be, unless you want me out,” he said with a grin, “In which case I have somewhere very important to get to right now.”

A matching smile crept onto Sherlock’s face as he said, “No, you can stay. I’m surprised to say that I find you just as tolerable to talk to sober as I found you when I was drunk.” John sat down on the bed and Sherlock squished over to make room for him. He then took John by the wrist and tugged the doctor on top of him. “That’s much better.”

“Are you suggesting we have another go now?” John asked as he looked down at Sherlock’s angular face.

“No. I just found the absence of your body heat unsatisfactory,” Sherlock said. He then placed his hands on John’s back. The pair stayed like that for several long minutes before John felt his eyelids growing heavy as he began drifting out of consciousness.

Then Sherlock’s phone rang. John’s eyes snapped open and he saw the mobile sitting on the bedside table. He grabbed it and passed it to Sherlock before rolling off his bedmate.

Sherlock glanced at the screen before answering. “Yes?—Lestrade, what is it?—How many do you have now?—Alright, yes, I’ll be there shortly,” he said as he disconnected the call. John raised a questioning eyebrow.

“That was my work,” Sherlock said.

“And what kind of work would that be?” John asked as he watched Sherlock hop from the bed and begin dressing frantically.

“I’m a consulting detective; whenever the police are out of their depth, which frankly is always, they come to me. That was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. You know those suicides that have been in the papers? There’s been a fourth.” Sherlock voice dripped with glee as he relayed the information to John. “And this one’s left a note.” He finished tugging on a shirt and as he worked the buttons his eyes narrowed as he turned to John.

“You’re a doctor, an army doctor.”

“Yes,” John answered, confused as to this new line of reasoning.

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

“You’ve seen plenty of violence, then, death…”

“Yes, enough; more than enough,” John said as he moved to sit up at the edge of the bed.

“Do you want to see some more,” Sherlock said with a glint in his eye.

“Oh, god, yes.” John hurried to dress himself, pausing only in the search of a sock. A minute later he and the consulting detective walked out the door of 221 Baker Street and hailed a cab.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like this one is probably the most out of character for both of them, but it’s where my head went, and I have a feeling drunk!Sherlock would surprise most of us. Also, my timeline is wonky, just assume John got invalided back much earlier.


End file.
